The Emancipated

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"You had heard nothing of this?"

Cecily did not reply. Thereupon Mrs. Travis again opened her little
bag, and took out a cabinet photograph. It represented a young woman
in tights, her arms folded, one foot across the other; the face was
vulgarly piquant, and wore a smile which made eloquent declaration
of its price.

"That is the 'lady,'" said Mrs. Travis, with a slight emphasis on
the last word.

Cecily looked for an instant only. There was perfect silence for a
minute or two after that; then Cecily rose. She did not speak; but
the other, also rising, said:

"I shouldn't have come if I had known you were still ignorant. But
now you can, and will, think the worst of me; from this day you will
hate me."

"I am not sure," replied Cecily, "that you haven't some strange
pleasure in what you have been telling me; but I know you are very
unhappy, and that alone would prevent me from hating you. I can't be
your friend, it is true; we are too unlike in our tempers and habits
of thought Let us shake hands and say good-bye."

But Mrs. Travis refused her hand, and with a look of bitter
suffering, which tried to appear resignation, went from the room.

Cecily felt a cold burden upon her heart. She sat in a posture of
listlessness, corresponding to the weary misery, numbing instead of
torturing, which possessed her now that the shock was over. Perhaps
the strange manner of the revelation tended to produce this result;
the strong self-control which she had exercised, the mingling of
incongruous emotions, the sudden end of her expectation, brought
about a mood resembling apathy.

She began presently to reflect, to readjust her view of the life she
had been living. It seemed to her now unaccountable that she had
been so little troubled with fears. Ignorance of the world had not
blinded her, nor was she unaware of her husband's history. But the
truth was that she had not cared to entertain suspicion. For a long
time she had not seriously occupied her mind with Reuben.
Self-absorbed, she was practically content to let happen what would,
provided it called for no interference of hers. Her indifference had
reached the point of idly accepting the present, and taking for
granted that things would always be much the same.

Yet she knew the kind of danger to which Reuben was exposed from the
hour when her indifference declared itself; it was present to her
imagination when he chose to remain alone in London. But such
thoughts were vague, impalpable. She had never realized a picture of
such degradation as this which had just stamped itself upon her
brain. In her surmises jealousy had no part, and therefore nothing
was conceived in detail. In the certainty that he no longer loved
her with love of the nobler kind, did it matter much what he
concealed? But this flagrant shame had never threatened her. This
was indeed the "experience" in which, as Reuben had insisted, she
was lacking.

No difficulty in understanding now why he kept away. Would he ever
come? Or had he determined that their life in common was no longer
possible, and resolved to spare her the necessity of saying that
they were no longer husband and wife? Doubtless that was what he
expected to hear from her; his view of her character, which she
understood sufficiently well, would lead him to think that.

But she had no impulse to leave his house. The example of Mrs.
Travis was too near. Escape, with or without melodramatic notes of
farewell, never suggested itself. She knew that it was a practical
impossibility to make that absolute severance of their lives without
which they were still man and wife, though at a distance from each
other; they must still be linked by material interests, by common
acquaintances. The end of sham heroics would come, sooner or later,
in the same way as to Mrs. Travis. How was her life different from
what it had been yesterday? By an addition of shame and scorn, that
was all; actually, nothing was altered. When Reuben heard that she
was remaining at home, he would come to her. Perhaps they might go
to live in some other place; that was all.

Tea was brought in, but she paid no heed to it. Sunset and twilight
came; the room grew dusk; then the servants appeared with lamps. She
dined, returned to the drawing room, and took up a book she had been
reading on her journey. It was a volume of Quinet, and insensibly
its interest concentrated her attention. She read for nearly two
hours.

Then she was tired of it, and began to move restlessly about. Again
she grew impatient of the uncertainty whether Reuben would return
to-night. She lay upon a couch and tried to forget herself in
recollection of far-off places and people. But instead of the
pictures she wished to form, there kept coming before her mind the
repulsive photograph which Mrs. Travis had produced. Though she had
barely glanced at it, she saw it distinctly--the tawdry costume,
the ignoble attitude, the shameless and sordid face. It polluted her
imagination.

Jealousy, of a woman such as that? Had she still loved him, she must
have broken her heart to think that he could fall so low. If it had
been told her that he was overcome by passion for a woman of some
nobleness, she could have heard it with resignation; in that there
would have been nothing base. But the choice he had made would not
allow her even the consolation of reflecting that she felt no
jealousy; it compelled her to involve him in the scorn, if not in
the loathing, with which that portrait inspired her.

That he merely had ceased to love her, what right had she to blame
him? The very word of "blame" was unmeaning in such reference. In
this, at all events, his fatalism had become her own way of
thinking. To talk of controlling love is nonsensical; dead love is
dead beyond hope. But need one sink into a slough of vileness?

At midnight she went to her bedroom. He would not come now.

Sleep seemed far from her, and yet before the clock struck one she
had fallen into a painful slumber. When she awoke, it was to toss
and writhe for hours in uttermost misery. She could neither sleep
nor command a train of thoughts. At times she sobbed and wailed in
her suffering.

No letter arrived in the morning. She could no longer read, and knew
not how to pass the hours. In some way she must put an end to her
intolerable loneliness, but she could not decide how to act. Reuben
might come today; she wished it, that the meeting might be over and
done with.

But the long torment of her nerves had caused a change of mood. She
was feverish now, and impatience grew to resentment. The emotions
which were yesterday so dulled began to stir in her heart and brain.
Walking about the room, unable to occupy herself for a moment, she
felt as though fetters were upon her; this house had become a
prison; her life was that of a captive without hope of release.

There came in her a sudden outbreak of passionate indignation at the
unequal hardships of a woman's lot. Often as she had read and heard
and talked of this, she seemed to understand it for the first time;
now first was it real to her, in the sense of an ill that goads and
tortures. Not society alone was chargeable with the injustice;
nature herself had dealt cruelly with woman. Constituted as she is,
limited as she is by inexorable laws, by what refinement of malice
is she endowed with energies and desires like to those of men? She
should have been made a creature of sluggish brain, of torpid pulse;
then she might have discharged her natural duties without exposure
to fever and pain and remorse such as man never knows.

She asked no liberty to be vile, as her husband made himself; but
that she was denied an equal freedom to exercise all her powers, to
enrich her life with experiences of joy, this fired her to revolt. A
woman who belongs to the old education readily believes that it is
not to experiences of joy, but of sorrow, that she must look for her
true blessedness; her ideal is one of renunciation; religious motive
is in her enforced by what she deems the obligation of her sex. But
Cecily was of the new world, the emancipated order. For a time she
might accept misery as her inalienable lot, but her youthful years,
fed with the new philosophy, must in the end rebel

Could she live with such a man without sooner or later taking a
taint of his ignobleness? His path was downwards, and how could she
hope to keep her own course in independence of him? It shamed her
that she had ever loved him. But indeed she had not loved the Reuben
that now was; the better part of him was then predominant. No matter
that he was changed; no matter how low he descended; she must still
be bound to him. Whereas he acknowledged no mutual bond; he was a
man, and therefore in practice free.

Yet she was as far as ever from projecting escape. The unjust law
was still a law, and irresistible. Had it been her case that she
loved some other man, and his return of love claimed her, then
indeed she might dare anything and break her chains. But the power
of love seemed as dead in her as the passion she had once, and only
once, conceived. She was utterly alone.

Morning and noon went by. She had exhausted herself with ceaseless
movement, and now for two or three hours lay on a couch as if
asleep. The fever burned upon her forhead and in her breath.

But at length endurance reached its limits. As she lay still, a
thought had taken possession of her--at first rejected again and
again, but always returning, and with more tempting persistency. She
could not begin another night without having spoken to some one. She
seemed to have been foresaken for days; there was no knowing how
long she might live here in solitude. When it was nearly five
o'clock, she went to her bedroom and prepared for going out.

When ready, she met the servant who was bringing up tea.

"I shall not want it," she said. "And probably I shall not dine at
home. Nothing need be prepared."

She entered the library, and took up from the writing-table
Mallard's note; she looked at the address that was on it.

Then she left the house, and summoned the first vacant cab.

CHAPTER XIII

ONWARD TO THE VAGUE

The cab drew up in a quiet road in Chelsea, by a gateway opening
into a yard. Cecily alighted and paid the driver.

"Be good enough to wait a minute or two," she said. "I may need you
again at once. But if I am longer, I shall not be coming."

Entering the yard, she came in front of a row of studios; on the
door of each was the tenant's name, and she easily discovered that
of Ross Mallard. This door was half open; she looked in and saw a
flight of stairs. Having ascended these, she came to another door,
which was closed. Here her purpose seemed to falter; she looked
back, and held her hand for a moment against her cheek. But at
length she knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again, more
loudly, leaning forward to listen; and this time there came a
distant shout for reply. Interpreting it as summons to enter, she
turned the handle; the door opened, and she stepped into a little
ante-chamber. From a room within came another shout, now
intelligible.

"Who's there?"

She advanced, raised a curtain, and found herself in the studio, but
hidden behind some large canvases. There was a sound of some one
moving, and when she had taken another step, Mallard himself, pipe
in mouth, came face to face with her. With a startled look, he took
the pipe from his lips, and stood regarding her; she met his gaze
with the same involuntary steadiness.

"Are you alone, Mr. Mallard?" fell at length from her.

"Yes. Come and sit down."

There was a gruffness in the invitation which under ordinary
circumstances would have repelled a visitor. But Cecily was so glad
to hear the familiar voice that its tone mattered nothing; she
followed him, and seated herself where he bade her. There was much
tobacco-smoke in the air; Mallard opened a window. She watched him
with timid, anxious eyes. Then, without looking at her, he sat down
near an easel on which was his painting of the temples of Paestum.
This canvas held Cecily's gaze for a moment.

"When did you get home?" Mallard asked abruptly.

"Yesterday morning."

"Mrs. Lessingham went on, I suppose?"

"Yes. I have been alone ever since, except that a visitor called."

"Alone?"

She met his eyes, and asked falteringly:

"You know why? You have heard about it?"

"Do you mean what happened the other day?" he returned, in a voice
that sounded careless, unsympathetic.

"Yes."

"I know that, of course. Where is your husband?"

"I have neither seen him nor heard from him. I shouldn't have
understood why he kept away but for the visitor that came--a lady;
she showed me a newspaper."

Mallard knit his brows, and now scowled at her askance, now looked
away. His visage was profoundly troubled. There was silence for some
moments. Cecily's eyes wandered unconsciously over the paintings and
other objects about her.

"You have come to ask me if I know where he is?"

She failed in her attempt to reply.

"I am sorry that I can't tell you. I know nothing of him. But
perhaps Mrs. Baske does. You know their address?"

"I didn't come for that," she answered, with decision, her features
working painfully. "It is not my part to seek for him."

"Then how can I help you?" Mallard asked, still gruffly, but with
more evidence of the feeling that his tone disguised.

"You can't help me, Mr. Mallard. How could any one help me? I was
utterly alone, and I wanted to hear a friend's voice."

"That is only natural. It is impossible for you to remain alone. You
don't feel able to go to Mrs. Baske?"

She shook her head.

"But your aunt will come? You have written to her?"

"No. I had rather she didn't come. It seems strange to you that I
should bring my troubles here, when it can only pain you to see me,
and to have to speak. But I am not seeking comfort or support--not
of the kind you naturally think I need."

As he watched the workings of her lips, the helpless misery in her
young eyes, the endeavour for self-command and the struggles of
womanly pride, Mallard remembered how distinctly he had foreseen
this in his past hours of anguish. It was hard to grasp the present
as a reality; at moments he seemed only to be witnessing the
phantoms of his imagination. The years that had vanished were so
insubstantial in memory; _now_ and _then_, what was it that divided
the two? This that was to-day a fact, was it not equally so when
Cecily walked by his side at Baiae? That which is to come, already
is. In the stress of a deep emotion we sometimes are made conscious
of this unity of things, and the effect of such spiritual vision is
a nobler calm than comes of mere acquiescence in human blindness.

"I came here," Cecily was continuing, "because I had something to
say to you--something I shall never say to any one else. You were
my guardian when I was a child, and I have always thought of you as
more than a simple friend. I want to fulfil a duty to you. I owe you
gratitude, and I shall have no rest till I have spoken it--told
you how deeply I feel it."

Mallard interrupted her, for every word seemed to be wrung from her
by pain, and he felt like one who listens to a forced confession.

"Don't give way to this prompting," he said, with kind firmness. "I
understand, and it is enough. You are not yourself; don't speak
whilst you are suffering so."

"My worst suffering would be _not_ to speak," she replied, with
increased agitation. "I must say what I came to say; then I can go
and face whatever is before me. I want to tell you how right you
were. You told me through Mrs. Lessingham how strongly you
disapproved of my marrying at once; you wished me to take no
irrevocable step till I knew myself and him better. You did
everything in your power to prevent me from committing a childish
folly. But I paid no regard to you. I ought to have held your wish
sacred; I owed you respect and obedience. But I chose my own foolish
way, and now that I know how right you were, I feel the need of
thanking you. You would have saved me if you could. It is a simple
duty in me to acknowledge this now I know it."

Mallard rose and stood for a minute looking absently at the temples.
Then he turned gravely towards her.

"If it has really lightened your mind to say this, I am content to
have heard it. But let it end there; there is no good in such
thoughts and speeches. They are hysterical, and you don't like to be
thought that. Such a service as you believe I might have rendered
you is so very doubtful, so entirely a matter of suppositions and
probabilities and possibilities, that we can't talk of it seriously.
I acted as any guardian was bound to act, under the circumstances.
You, on the other hand, took the course that young people have taken
from time immemorial. The past is past; it is worse than vain to
revive it. Come, now, let us talk for a few minutes quietly."

Cecily's head was bent. He saw that her bosom heaved, but on her
face there was no foreboding of tears. The strong impulse having had
its way, she seemed to be recovering self command.

"By the bye," he asked, "how did you know where to find me?"

"I found a letter of yours lying open. Did he answer your
invitation?"

"Yes; he wrote a few lines saying he would come before long. But I
haven't seen him. What do you intend to do when you leave me?"

"Go home again and wait," she answered, with quiet sadness.

"In solitude? And what assurance have you that he means to come?"

"None whatever. But where else should I go, but home? My place is
there, until I have heard his pleasure."

It was mournfully unlike her, this bitter tone. Her eyes were fixed
upon the picture again. Looking at her, Mallard was moved by
something of the same indignant spirit that was still strong in her
heart. Her pure and fine-wrought beauty, so subtle in expression of
the soul's life, touched him with a sense of deepest pathos. It
revolted him to think of her in connection with those brutalities of
the newspaper; he had a movement of rebellion against the
undiscerning rigour of social rule. Disinterested absolutely, but he
averted his face lest she should have a suspicion of what he
thought.

In spite of that, he was greatly relieved to hear her purpose. He
had feared other things. It was hateful that she should remain the
wife of such a man as Elgar, but what refuge was open to her? The
law that demands sacrifice of the noble few on behalf of the ignoble
many is too swift and sure in avenging itself when defied. It was
well that she had constrained herself to accept the inevitable.

"You will write this evening to Mrs. Lessingham?" he said, in a tone
of assuredness.

"Why do you wish me to do that?" she asked, looking at him.

"Because of the possibility of your still being left alone. You are
not able to bear that."

"Yes, I can bear anything that is necessary now," she answered
firmly. "If it was weakness to come here and say what I have said,
then my weakness is over. Mrs. Lessingham is enjoying herself with
friends; why should I disturb her? What have I to say to her, or to
any one?"

"Suppose an indefinite time goes by, and you are still alone?"

"In that case, I shall be able to arrange my life as other such
women do. I shall find occupation, the one thing I greatly need. My
gravest misfortune is, that I feel the ability to do something, but
do not know what. Since the death of my child, that is what has
weighed upon me most."

Mallard reflected upon this. He could easily understand its truth.
He felt assured that Miriam suffered in much the same way, having
reached the same result by so very different a process of
development. But it was equally clear to him that neither of these
women really could _do_ anything; it was not their function to do,
but to _be_. Eleanor Spence would in all likelihood have illustrated
the same unhappy problem had it been her lot to struggle against
adverse conditions; she lived the natural life of an educated woman,
and therefore was beset by no questionings as to he? capacities and
duties. So long, however, as the educated woman is the exceptional
woman, of course it will likewise be exceptional for her life to
direct itself in a calm course.

To discuss such questions with Cecily was impossible. How should he
say to her, "You have missed your chance of natural happiness, and
it will only be by the strangest good fortune if you ever again find
yourself in harmony with fate"? Mallard had far too much discretion
to assume the part of lay preacher, and involve himself in the
dangers of suggesting comfort. The situation was delicate enough,
and all his efforts were directed to subduing its tone. After a
pause, he said to her:

"Have you taken your meals to-day?"

She smiled a little.

"Yes. But I am thirsty. Can you give me a glass of water?"

"Are you _very_ thirsty? Can you wait a quarter of an hour?"

With a look of inquiry as to his meaning, she answered that she
could. Mallard nodded, and began to busy himself in a corner of the
studio. She saw that he was lighting a spirit-lamp, and putting a
kettle over it. She made no remark; it was soothing to sit here in
this companionship, and feel the feverish heat in her veins
gradually assuaged. Mallard kept silence, and when he saw her
beginning to look around at the pictures, he threw out a word or two
concerning them. She rose, to see better, and moved about, now and
then putting a question In little more than the stipulated time, tea
was prepared. After a short withdrawal to the ante-room, Mallard
produced some delicate slices of bread and butter. Cecily ate and
drank. As it was growing dusk, the artist lit a lamp.

"You know," she said, again turning her eyes to the pictures, "that
I used to pretend to draw, to make poor little sketches. Would there
be any hope of my doing anything, not good, but almost good, if I
began again and worked seriously?"

He would rather have avoided answering such a question; but perhaps
the least dangerous way of replying was to give moderate approval.

"At all events, you would soon find whether it was worth while going
on or not. You might take some lessons; it would be easy to find
some lady quite competent to help you in the beginning."

She kept silence for a little; then said that she would think about
it.

Mallard had left his seat, and remained standing. When both had been
busy with their thoughts for several minutes, Cecily also rose.

"I must ask a promise from you before you go," Mallard said, as soon
as she had moved. "If you are still alone tomorrow, you promise me
to communicate with Mrs. Lessingham. Whether you wish to do so or
not is nothing to the point."

She hesitated, but gave her promise.

"That is enough; your word gives me assurance. You are going
straight home? Then I will send for a cab."

In a few minutes the cab was ready at the gate. Mallard, resolved to
behave as though this were the most ordinary of visits, put on his
hat and led the way downstairs. They went out into the road, and
then Cecily turned to give him her hand. He looked at her, and for
the first time spoke on an impulse.

"It's a long drive. Will you let me come a part of the way with
you?"

"I shall be very glad."

They entered the hansom, and drove off.

The few words that passed between them were with reference to Mrs.
Lessingham. Mallard inquired about her plans for the summer, and
Cecily answered as far as she was able. When they had reached the
neighbourhood of Regent's Park, he asked permission to stop the cab
and take his leave; Cecily acquiesced. From the pavement he shook
hands with her, seeing her face but dimly by the lamplight; she said
only "Thank you," and the cab bore her away.

Carried onward, with closed eyes as if in self-abandonment to her
fate, Cecily thought with more repugnance of home the nearer she
drew to it. It was not likely that Reuben had returned; there would
be again an endless evening of misery in solitude. When the cab was
at the end of Eel size Park, she called the driver's attention, and
bade him drive on to a certain other address, that of the Denyers.
Zillah's letter of appeal, all but forgotten, had suddenly come to
mind and revived her sympathies. Was there not some resemblance
between her affliction and that of poor Madeline? Her own life had
suffered a paralysis; helpless amid the ruin of her hopes, she could
look forward to nothing but long endurance.

On arriving, she asked for Mrs. Denyer, but that lady was from home.
Miss Zillah, then. She was led into the front room on the ground
floor, and waited there for several minutes.

At length Zillah came in hurriedly, excusing herself for being so
long. This youngest of the Denyers was now a tall awkward, plain
girl, with a fixed expression of trouble; in talking, she writhed
her fingers together and gave other signs of nervousness; she spoke
in quick, short sentences, often breaking off in embarrassment.
During the years of her absence from home as a teacher, Zillah had
undergone a spiritual change; relieved from the necessity of
sustaining the Denyer tone, she had by degrees ceased to practise
affectation with herself, and one by one the characteristics of an
"emancipated" person had fallen from her. Living with a perfectly
conventional family, she adopted not only the forms of their faith--in
which she had, of course, no choice--but at length the habit
of their minds; with a profound sense of solace, she avowed her
self-deceptions, and became what nature willed her to be--a
daughter of the Church. The calamities that had befallen her family
had all worked in this direction with her, and now that her daily
life was in a sick-chamber, she put forth all her best qualities,
finding in accepted creeds that kind of support which only the very
few among women can sincerely dispense with.

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